English Summer Rain
by Xx starlight-moon xX
Summary: Three years before the events of "Therapy", Barty Crouch Jr watches the rain fall. A prequel of sorts, but can be read alone. Likely to be a twoshot. Read and review, if you like. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A / N : Yup, Barty invaded my head again. This is probably going to be a twoshot. It just squirmed into my head and demanded to be written. **

**Disclaimer - Obviously, I am not JKR, nor do I own the song. **

_Always stays the same, _

_Nothing ever changes, _

_English summer rain,_

_Seems to last for ages. _

**_English Summer Rain, _**_Placebo._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It was another English summer, and it was raining. Grey rain fell from grey skies onto grey rooftops and grey pavements and grey people. Ten year old Barty Crouch watched it fall with a dispassionate eye, watching the water wash against the windowpane and gurgle in the gutter. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Standing like this, he could almost feel the raindrops, beating against his brain with a rhythm that was almost like a pulse. _Wet wet wet. Grey grey grey. _

"Barty?"

He opened his eyes. His mother was standing across from him, watching him. She was trying to sound calm, but her eyes were a little too bright, her cheeks a little too pink. She was worried. Barty sighed inwardly. His mother worried a lot. Mostly about him. He didn't understand why.

"What?"

She flashed him a tentative smile. "Nothing, darling," she said. The anxiety she was trying to cover up had seeped into her voice anyway. "It's just that . . . . well, aren't you bored, darling? Why don't you play? You must be bored."

Barty smothered a smile. He didn't think his mother would approve of his games, somehow. She was smiling expectantly at him now, waiting for a response. He dropped his gaze to the newspaper in her hands. It was _The Daily Prophet, _and on the front was a picture of a man, a man with a pale, twisted face, and dark, glinting eyes.

"Who's that?"

His mother jumped. "Who, darling?"

"The man in the picture," Barty said impatiently.

His mother frowned, her forehead creasing as she realized who he meant. "Oh . . . . does it really matter, my love? It's not important."

Barty scowled, annoyed. "I want to know," he demanded.

His mother sighed. "Of all the things to ask . . . . He's . . . a bad man. His name is Antonin Dolohov."

"Why is he a bad man?"

His mother shivered. "He killed people, darling. Lots of people. On the orders of a very bad man, and I certainly won't talk about _him_."

"Oh."

Barty fell silent.

His mother frowned, unable to find a reason for the sudden change in her son's expression, the narrowing of his eyes that told her he was thinking intently.

"Barty? What's wrong?"

Her son was spared the trouble of answering by the sudden appearance of his father, who entered the room in a tearing hurry and proceeded to try and adjust his tie and pack his briefcase at the same time.

"Excellent news, Theresa," he barked, pulling a sheaf of papers from the desk. There was a desk in every room in the Crouch household, except the bathroom – and Barty suspected the only reason for _that _was because there wasn't room for one. "Comb your hair, boy," his father snapped, momentarily sidetracked. Barty scowled and ran a hand through his hair with a sour expression, rumpling it even further. His father, busy stuffing his pockets with extra quills, did not notice. "I have been promoted."

His wife's mouth fell open. "Really? Oh, that's . . . . wonderful."

"Yes, quite. I'm telling you Theresa, if I play my cards right, I could be head of department by the end of the year, and from there . . . . who knows? One thing I do know, though – I'd stamp this "Death Eater" nonsense out in a heartbeat, if _I _were running the ship at the Ministry . . . They're being altogether too soft, these criminals need tough justice. It's the only way they'll understand. Didn't I tell you to comb your hair, boy?"

Barty shrugged, fingering something in his pocket. It wasn't a comb. It was a pack of cards.

"I have a card trick," he said. "Do you want me to show you?"

His mother smiled. "Of course, darling," she said encouragingly. "I'd love to see it."

Barty didn't scowl, but he didn't smile either. His face stayed blank as he shuffled the cards, and held them out to his mother. "Pick a card," he ordered.

Still smiling, she obeyed. "Oh, look darling. It's the Queen of Hearts."

Barty did not so much as glance at it. "I know," he said. "Pick another."

Humouring him, she drew another. "Yes, it's . . . the Queen of Hearts. And . . . .the Queen of Hearts." In fact, every card, it transpired, was the Queen of Hearts. She frowned. "That's . . . very clever, darling. Bartemius, come here. Look at Barty's card trick. It's ever so strange."

"Theresa, I don't have time for this nonsense. Stop indulging the child."

Barty scowled, his face like thunder. "Fine," he muttered, as his father stepped into the fireplace and disappeared. "I'll draw yours for you." He scooped the cards back into his arms and shuffled them again. Then he pulled a card from the deck, glanced at it, and let it fall to the floor. He repeated the action, over and over, his mouth twisting into a grim line. Theresa watched her son, alarmed. His face looked whiter than usual, and he seemed to have forgotten she was there, wrenching the cards from the pack with force enough to bend the edges. His breathing was shallow and fevered sounding, and his gaze burned with a strange intensity. Quietly, moving very slowly, she bent down and picked up a handful of the cards. Staring at them, she felt her blood run cold.

The picture on each card seemed, at first glance, to be the joker of the pack. The fool. But no joker she had ever seen looked like this. The dancing stick man wore robes that were not his usual harlequin pattern of red and green. They were a solid, uncompromising black, and the joker himself was different too. Skeletally thin, he wore a macabre grin – the mocking smile of a skeleton. Death.

"Barty!"

She seized him by the shoulders, knocking the cards from his hands.

"What?"

He stared at her, jolted out of his trance. She swallowed, squeezing his arms as hard as she could, to stop her hands from shaking. "Go outside and play."

"But it's _raining." _Her son stated the obvious.

"Then play in your treehouse." She pressed the point, insistant for once. "Go on. The fresh air will do you good."

He shrugged and crossed to the back door. And that was it. He left the room without another word, without giving her the chance to say anything else. His mother watched him go. Then she folded her arms across her waist, trying to swallow the odd, hiccupping sobs that were forcing their way up her throat. She wanted to call after her son, to fold his thin frame in her arms and kiss his pale cheek, smoothing away the troubled frown line on his forehead with a mother's loving caress. But Barty wouldn't respond to it. He never did. Sometimes, if she was lucky, if it was a very good day, he would tolerate her emotional displays. He would stand stiff as a little doll while she embraced him, as if he didn't know _how _to hug her back, as if the idea would never occur to him. Most days, of course, he simply wriggled out of her grasp, retreating into his own little bubble of loneliness. She crossed to the window, watching her son. She could just see him, through the slanting rain. He was standing on the swing now,his arms wrapped around the ropes, swaying slowly back and forth. A lonely, melancholic sight. And . . . . she couldn't be sure, but it looked like he was talking to himself. His mouth was moving anyway, although she couldn't think who in the world he could be talking to. She sighed, turning away.

"Oh Barty . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

**A / N : Thanks to Expecting Rain and Rainy Dae, who were kind enough to review part one! I appreciate it. Anyway, here's part two. Enjoy!**

_Hold your breath and count to ten, _

_Fall apart and start again, _

_Hold your breath and count to ten, _

_And start again, _

_And start again . . . _

_**English Summer Rain, **Placebo_

It was raining. Barty wandered through the garden, annoyed. Why was his mother making him play in the rain? That wasn't like her. He didn't understand it, and Barty didn't like it when he didn't understand things. He approached the tree at the bottom of the garden slowly, wondering if she was watching him. Whether she was or not, he didn't turn around. He decided he didn't care. It wasn't important, not really. She had told him to play, and that was what he was going to do. Carefully, he put out a hand to touch the swing, to run his fingers along the sodden rope that held it up. Swings were made for sitting on, but that was boring. Gripping the rope tightly on either side, Barty put his feet onto the wooden plank and pushed the swing forward, letting it sway to and fro. He closed his eyes and swung faster, until all he could hear was the wind ruffling his hair and the surge of blood drumming in his ears, faster and faster and faster . . . . Laughing, he threw his head back and opened his mouth, letting the raindrops fall on his tongue, cold as silver bullets and metallic tasting too. And then, at last, when he had swallowed so much rain and spun so fast he thought he might be sick, he spoke.

"Why are you watching my house?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was raining. Antonin Dolohov did not like the rain. As far as he was concerned, it was simply something which made an unbearably boring task even harder to bear. He was standing in the garden, watching the house of Bartemius Crouch, a rather annoying Ministry official with plans of a sort that annoyed Dolohov's master no end. That said, Crouch was, at present, hardly a high priority, and Dolohov suspected that this assignment was intended as a punishment._It's working, _he thought sourly. The rain had plastered his hair and clothes to his skin, and muddy water was filling his boots. Crouch, apparently, spent more time out of the house than in it, which meant that all he really had to do was watch the man's wife, and his house elf. Oh, and his decidedly demented son. Hidden beneath a borrowed Invisibilty Cloak, Dolohov scowled. Children were not a subject he knew much about, never having had any himself. But this kid was weird. No doubt about it. Dolohov watched him spinning on his swing, and fingered the edge of his wand. A simple slashing movement and he could cut through the rope and break the kid's neck. Now _that _would be warning enough to Crouch. He raised his wand carefully and opened his mouth.

But the boy had stopped laughing now, and slowed down, until he was swaying gently back and forth, his eyes locked on the patch of ground where Dolohov stood concealed. Frowning a little, he opened his mouth.

"Why are you watching my house?"

Antonin Dolohov was not easily alarmed. But he had to admit, that surprised him. After all, he was supposed to be invisible._ How . . . ? _

The boy continued to stare at him, looking a little exasperated now. "I know you're there, you know," he continued. "I only want to talk."

Frowning, Dolohov pulled off the Cloak. "Is that right?" he growled. To his annoyance, the brat simply smiled.

"Hello."

Dolohov scowled. "How did you know where I was?" he demanded. If the Cloak had a defect, he might as well know about it now.

The boy tilted his head to the side, watching him with a sort of keen interest that seemed entirely devoid of fear. "Is that all?" he asked, disappointed.

Losing patience, Dolohov grabbed the brat by the neck and jammed his wand into the hollow of his throat. "Answer the question."

"Fine." The kid sighed. "It was easy really. I just looked for what wasn't there."

"What do you mean, what wasn't there?" This made no sense at all to Dolohov.

Barty flung out an arm, gesturing at the rain tumbling from the skies above. "The rain," he explained. "Rain doesn't hit the ground if there's something in the way. You were in the way." After a moment's silence he continued with a question of his own. "Why are you watching my house?" he repeated. "Are you trying to kill my father?"

Dolohov raised an eyebrow. "Maybe," he conceded. He took a step closer, pushing the wand deeper into the kid's neck. "Or maybe," he growled, "I'm here to kill _you." _

Barty swallowed. "Really?" he asked, fascinated.

Dolohov's only response was to increase the pressure against the boy's windpipe. Barty considered the situation. No-one had ever tried to kill him before. Sometimes, he got the feeling that his father would _like _to, but he was pretty sure he was safe in that regard, as he had the distinct impression that procreation was _not _an experiment his father wished to repeat.

"I know who you are."

Dolohov gave a cold, humourless laugh. "Do you now?" he said shortly.

"You're Antonin Dolohov. My father wants to put you in prison."

Dolohov smiled. "Is that so? And what do you think? Do you agree with your father? Do you think the big bad murderer should be thrown to the dementors?"

Barty shrugged. "I can't breathe," he pointed out, gasping a little.

Dolohov grudgingly lowered his wand. "Answer the question."

"I don't care," Barty said at last. "I just don't want you to kill my father."

"Touching."

Barty frowned. "Not really. I just don't think it would be fair, that's all."

"Life's not fair, kid. Trust me."

Barty considered this. It seemed reasonable. Then again, Barty wasn't the sort of person to give up easily. He hesitated.

"Can we make a deal?" he said at last.

Dolohov stared at him. "A deal?" he echoed. The kid had to be mad.

Barty nodded. "You can't kill my father," he said at last. "That wouldn't be fair. You don't even know him. And that would be like . . . . taking away my favourite toy. I wouldn't have _anything _then."

Dolohov stared. He couldn't be entirely sure, but it _sounded _as though the boy was jealous. As though killing Crouch Sr was some kind of right, and he was the only one who had earned it. _Strange. _There was no denying the logic of it, but it surprised him. That wasn't the sort of logic normal people used. He frowned.

"So let me get this straight. You don't object to the idea of your father ending up dead. You just object to the _circumstances?" _

The boy's eyes lit up, and his lips cracked apart in a delighted grin. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying!" Before Dolohov could interrupt, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, and pressed it into his hands. A letter. Dolohov frowned at it.

"He got another promotion," Barty explained, watching the man's face carefully for a reaction. "I stole the letter from his desk. And I can tell you something else as well, if you want to know."

Dolohov raised an eyebrow and waved a hand, indicating that he should go on. The kid grinned again.

"He thinks he's going to be head of department by the end of the year. And he's always right about that kind of thing." He glanced at the letter. "I don't think you can keep that, though. He frames all his promotion letters. He'll notice it's gone." For the first time, he looked a little worried.

Dolohov laughed. This was turning out to be the strangest day he'd had in a long time.

"How old are you?"

Barty frowned. "I'm ten," he replied. "Why is that important?"

"It isn't." Dolohov put out a hand. "You know what? Consider it a deal. I won't kill your father. I will be keeping this though." He tapped the scroll of parchment in his hand and tucked it into his pocket. The boy frowned, staring at his outstretched hand as though unsure whether to take it or not.

Dolohov laughed again. "I get that a lot," he said sardonically. He felt curiously cheerful. He had a feeling his master was going to find this particular story _very _amusing. He smiled. "Well, so long kid."

Barty leapt to his feet, panicking. "Wait! You can't keep the letter," he insisted. "He'll know I took it! I'll get punished!"

Dolohov's smiled widened as he took in the boy's frightened expression. His eyes had widened in horror and what little colour his face held had already drained from it. Dolohov shrugged.

"You've got a lot to learn," he remarked. He was still laughing as he turned on the spot and disapparated, leaving Barty standing open-mouthed in the garden, soaked to the skin.

Eventually, Barty closed his mouth and shivered. He was going to get punished. And he had the feeling he had come off worse, in this exchange. But still . . . it had been interesting. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky, letting the raindrops beat against the fragile skin of his eyelids. The rain seemed colder now, and heavier, the sky a sombre grey so dark it was almost black. Funeral black. Barty smiled.


End file.
